untitled

for M

in the space between

the ticks

the thousand clicks

my Mission clock

brass pendulum/oak

keyed and wound

by hands, mine/other

women's hands

a century and a half

it stands still on

the sideboard still

and I am still

but for my heart

it skips but still

another beat to keep

this life, my time

in the space between.

O Johnny

Johnny, über-soldier on Shilo’s Carl G range,
I knew you’d cover more than arcs, tread dust,
test, not second-guess, you’d take the hit
first before me, before your men. Ever.
At Suffield your platoon white teeth black-face grinned
after live-fire, the hail, LAV turret, gun break-down,
taught me how much shit infantrymen can take,
how the heavier the load, weirdly, the happier you all get.
Then Afghanistan. 11 Platoon only a kilometer away
but roads too mined for poets to come to tea.

Trenton, repat. We hugged, waited for one of your boys,
cried before he arrived, his coffin unloaded.
O Johnny, believe what Col. says. There’s nothing more
you could have done. It was that young boy’s time.

What will come

At 26, I was told I was no longer young.
Crow’s feet had hopped on my eyes.
There’d been many dresses—
black with white
polka dots, pink
strapless, red
floral prints—worn to weddings
of friends, who disappeared
after creating little men
who cried
and begged to be fed.

At 28, I had no desire
for a regular nine to five
behind cubicle walls—
a comfortable salary while the Boss drained
my energy until all I could do was watch TV
on the couch with sleepy eyes. I
free range, fend for my self-
employment and shop
in empty grocery stores on Mondays at 2 p.m.
I’ve seen what will come.
I’ll disappear. Thin
skin, liver spots, the thickening of hips, a desire to cut
my hair as short as can be.
I’ve seen us
at the gym, lethargic and slow
with the desire to repossess the value
of our bodies. Diligently skip
chocolate desserts
in front of house guests. Alone,
reach for potato chips. In the end,
it’s what we want
now that’s important, not what we really want—
youth, beauty,
to be seen again.

All For Show

Thursday, 28th May Have been having a rather lazy time since our arrival, drilling but for an hour or two. On Monday, the 25th, we celebrated the Queen's Birthday by a review and a general salute, or was it a Royal Salute...

Victoria Day for the victors.
We marched up and down
the slightly muddied grounds
impressing a pair of crows
and a few gophers. The grass
and weeds, downtrodden by our feet,
spring back in the dewy mornings.

The bark of our guns echoed
smartly down the banks, rolled
across the valleys and the water.
I was more impressed by what caught
my eye as it flitted drunkenly by: black
and orange and brown, spring's first butterfly.
***
It would be a comfort if we prisoners
could be together, but isolation is always
the tactic. Divide and conquer. The rustle of
uniforms, canvas, drills called out by day, snoring
of these Easterners by night, all I wish for is my own
family around me. The sight of sky. To be a free man once more.

The smallest things count for my happiness now.
Today, I
saw a mouse.
With my eyes I placed my love for my wife and children
in that tiny body and wished it a speedy
trip south.

Before riding off, our warriors sold
beaded moccasins, tobacco pouches,
horse decorations
to the soldiers from the east,
eager to take mementoes home.

Then they rode south to Eagle Hills - knowing
we would know, despite their unflinching faces
their shrugs that leaving their men, their Chief
behind was of no great consequence or loss

- south is where sorrow is taken. They walk
to the South Wind, Sawan, to release
grief and pray for healing.

My hands are bound so tightly they've lost
all feeling.

lingerie, a hymn for the open road

neatly folded and compressed,
housed lovingly
among other intimates in the soft
darkness of your top drawer, wrapped
in the essence of a woman, a scent
never strong enough to shade
the humid breath
of your body.

like the Greeks you believe
in the thing and its essence.
this is why you squeeze, lift,
and flatten that which has exceeded
its purpose, you agree
to be lavender, lace
and love.

but what if you undressed
and actually got down to it - this
devious thing, the tortured skin, angry
bones and excess flesh. what if
you told the story without props, placed
his hands along the twisting plot and told him
what it means to ache.

you are old enough to know
that men will eat apples and snakes
will be snakes. you are old enough to give up
on hiding, to step
onto the dusty road, the heat
of their gaze on the scars
of your skin, wise
and unafraid.

Thirty-day pass: 6. From the dome car

The train is a moving tunnel through

the rain that falls from grey cloud-pall

that slants against curved windows

ripples the glass

that puddles on soggy fields

pockmarks the surface of ponds

that slides off oiled feathers

of pintails, canvasbacks,

mallards in pairs

that falls and falls

The Hostage

On Tuesday evening, the 26th, Chief Poundmaker came in with his band and surrendered. He had a big pow-wow with the General (at which I was lucky enough to be present) and justified his action at Cutknife by a plea of self-defence. Many of his braves too are rather fine-looking men. The General kept the Chief and a few of his principal followers prisoners and sent the rest away.

We have won this thing
cheaply. We sit in forts
accepting terms of peace
from rebels and Indians.

When Poundmaker put his hand out
in peace, Middleton waved it aside
saying he did not shake hands with
rebels. The translator hesitated,
explained in Cree there is no such
word.

Both men expounded at great lengths
words drifting off and away like gulls
or clouds or so much smoke
from a campfire.

I confess, I favoured the Cree.
***
Poundmaker speaks much verbatim, c/o Stan Cuthand
"From the beginning, the Great Spirit created
Indians and white persons.
He put them on separate countries.
He provided us with buffalo.
He provided you with cows and sheep.

We lived in contentment.
We were well off.
The whole country was ours.
From the place of the rising sun,
to the place of the setting sun,
the buffalo roamed in great numbers.

We did not covet your land,
neither did my father.
But the white persons seemed unhappy.
They left their land.
They came across the great waters.

When you came, we treated you well.
What did you do in return?
You stole our land.
You shared a little food with us.
And you said you paid for it.
You killed off our buffalo for no useful purpose for you.
We did not destroy the buffalo. We know they are useful.
Everything we needed came from them. What will you destroy next?

When I was a young man, I often went on a war party.
We rode all day. And all day we passed through herds of buffalo.
The plains were black as far as one could see with herds of buffalo.
We killed one only for food.

After the whites came, the buffalo became fewer and fewer.
We all know that.
We began to hate the white persons.
They were robbing us of our birthright.
We became very poor.
We wandered to the south.
The buffalo were not coming back.
We were told, "the land is not yours anymore."
We were to stay only on our small patches of land that were leftover (iskonikana).

Our grandfathers travelled on these great plains and called it their own.
Why do I now have to live on a small patch like the white persons?
I only want my freedom."

Poundmaker spoke of Aniyen-they-call-Riel, of his own fear
for our people, of me and his other warriors
who hungered to take action against the many
whites, no matter their strengths and numbers.

Then he spoke of Cut Knife and holding
us back. He called it "a gentle war"
and it is true. All their men would have died
but for him. The prisoners also, he treated
like his own children.

"Now I urge you to be gentle,
as I have advocated with my men.
Let all be 'given back' (forgiven).
Let the tribes (Cree and Assiniboine)
be reinstated upon their reserves.
Rations and payments be continued.
That is all I have to say."

As Poundmaker turned around to face his people his wife said, "I also must speak for the women and children."

"Ahaw, tapwe!" was expressed by the warriors.

The Chief Soldier looked confused, replied to Poundmaker,
"You are speaking for all your people."

A quick reply came from the crowd, "You always tell us that the Great White Queen speaks at the Supreme Council."

"Why should not a woman speak?" added Poundmaker.

Middleton laughed, said, "She does not speak in her Parliament. Her men
do all this for her. This is a war conference and we will listen only to warriors."

Poundmaker was a Chief, not a warrior. Middleton
was wrong. And his wife wanted to speak not only
for the women and children, but on behalf
of a mother whose innocent son had been taken prisoner.

The Chief Soldier said we had defied the government
by taking up arms (this is their right alone?)
and that our men must be given over, tried,
and punished. (also their right, alone.)

Poundmaker, as chief, would be taken hostage
and remain a prisoner
for the good behaviour of his people.

All good men, it seems,
go the way of the buffalo.
This is my sorrow.

March 5: Saint Adrian

I forgive you:
though the Captain got his hook in you,
you neglected to die, but wriggled about
unsure of this air we mortals breathe.
The sense to expire quickly is not
a common quality among fish,
or martyrs,
or folks with or without health insurance.
Would a bus have been a better way to go?
Forget the hook – hop up and slide under!
Forget the lion, which followed the hook,
roaring dominoes down:
it dug in, sunk its, flopped
you on the welcome mat, proudly,
You opened an eye.
No angler nor cat lady came
brandishing a club.

Will you sign up to be my assistant?
I am a good magician, only slightly left-handed.
Lord, have mercy on a saw.

Rendezvous

Sunday, 24th May ...Went up to the Q.(ueen's) O.(wn) R.(ifles) camp and saw all my old Varsity and Toronto friends, who bombarded me with questions concerning the victory at Batoche.

Reunion so far from home,
knowing much as I missed
the action, there were those
even further removed. Unexpected pocketful
of coins, to have
seen the battlefield, walk
on the ground where we manufactured
our success in warfare, a currency
worth possessing. Easy enough
to imagine ourselves back on campus
but for our surroundings: flapping tents,
well-worn uniforms, issue equipment. And some
years from now, students will discuss us
as part of their class on Canadian warfare.
We are a noble chapter in history.

Some supply wagons were waylaid:
food is scarcer and less palatable
than in college days, even.
The atmosphere: convivial. Some men
showing off souvenirs.
***
We are marching south to Battleford
from the foot of Eagle Hills.
Their Chief Soldier
is camped among them. Unknown:
what our victory at Cut Knife Hill means.

Poundmaker as our leader
must let them know we are not afraid to meet.
He would sooner have gone southwest and away, but
his burden is to carry out
the hopes and wishes of our people.

I saw him at dawn, greeting our day,
trouble on his brow. There are worries
that can't be smudged away.
But his words, when they are brought
to the Queen's Chiefs, will be strong.

Penises on the Sides of Buildings

I've been AWOL lately, and this one isn't really finished, but here it is...



What purpose have graffiti penises?
When the bra-snapping boys get big enough to scale walls,
is this how they mark their territory? Are they raping the building?
Are they pointing themselves to the wide, open skies and saying
fuck you, dark sky this night, blue sky of the day, fluffy girly clouds,
big hot sun, Thor and Zeus and God-god rumbling up there,
look at me!

I have a big marker, or can spray a black foul smell with great force all over
this wall of your devising. It might be the Public Safety Building, or, better yet,
some town’s City Hall, with its quaint Edwardian clock-tower pointing up,
but differently. Edwardian penises are so hard,
brittle in fact, you must be gingerly about it, or
snap—

(thirteen)

Why did you lie
When you lied by my side
Spinning stories,
Beginnings - no ends

Again and again I believed,
A fool in lamb's wool
With a wolf by my side
You left me to cry all alone

Left in the middle
To answer your riddles
When I failed
You got dressed and you left

Walkabout

Sunday, 24th May ...The village and the Police Barracks are on a level tract of high land between the rivers Battle and North Saskatchewan. This plateau is of considerable area and is a splendid site for a town.

A townsite lofty above the flat prairie.
Medieval castle-builders
could do no better.
And where two rivers cross:
x marks the spot. Grey-weathered
timber encloses the fort,
houses scatter like
jewels or starfish about
this hub, this gentle net
that has drawn them in,
scattered them artfully.

The settlers are guarded,
jumpy, and deserving
of the tranquillity and harmony
this setting must usually mete out.
Cerulean blue sky today: surely
peace is restored beyond doubt.
***
Mon dieu, but my feet are sore.
I am too old to walk this path much more.

We have been walking 12 days
now. I remember as a girl, this was
a way of life. Wandering in our lands,
following the herds. Sometimes settling
a while. Things changed, we began
to settle and farm. Our long narrow lots
to the river, so each homestead
could have access to water,
and the best hunting (even the animals
need that river). Oh, that grasping Dominion:
it tried to chase my grandparents and parents
from Manitoba, claiming the land
again and again from
the East. Trying to put impractical grids over
our systems, from their Ottawa desks where
they must all live close to water.

We tried to negotiate, always. To ask
for a voice. A choice. Our men and leaders
listen to the Elders, to the women,
too. Madame Caron, she sent reinforcements
to battle only weeks ago - flying to Riel,
saying - "I can hear the gunshots, Louis,
those are pointed at my men! Send them help,
now!" Middleton doesn't bring his wife,
does he? These Easterners, they must
dominate. Overwhelm. Berate.

I saw them wrest the bell
from the chapel steeple. I wish them all hell:
cutting out the tongue
from my people.

Birdwatching During the Playoffs

All mouth, the plaintive peeps of starlings
newly hatched under church eaves.
Soon bigger than most songbirds
they bully, they call wheezy for mom
and when she arrives bearing a worm,
a brawl ensues that can be heard over cheers
for the Canucks. There isn’t enough grub.
Mom soon learns to stockpile on the roof,
shoot three at once into the nest, a hat trick.
Quiet then, before the rhythm,
like the stomping of floorboards,
starts in again.

Scenery

Sunday, 24th May Arrived at Battleford this evening about sunset, one of the most beautiful spots I have seen in the West.

Freed from the boat
at last. Wish I could
walk, maybe towards
that dusky horizon
velveting the land's edge.
Larger hills here,
and green. Some trees.
Rolling fields, beyond.
Sunset bathed the skies,
the ground, in pinks,
oranges, lavenders:
hues I've never seen.
* * *
We are scattering north
and west; I am hard-pressed
to take my children and my troubles
to my aged mother, but where else?
We have nothing. All is lost.
Slow travelling,
walking with the little ones.
Before they'd let us leave,
we had to give over all our weapons.
I have no way to shoot even
a rabbit. Too early for berries.
We chew on grasses sometimes.
Just to chew.

At dusk, two coyotes
followed close. Right now,
there's only one.

Mon Dieu, I wish I had my gun.

(twelve)

on the fringes of
my life i run
on the spot
like Alice
in Wonderland.

i wonder where
you were when i
realized i was
outside looking in,
wanting
to dance wildly
but unable to
touch the sky.

i wonder where
you will be when i
awaken once again -
you see,
there is no border
no here or there,
no room for time
in wonder land,
there is no you
there is no me.